


Homecoming

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, a bit of angst, messy and soppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday prompt fill for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre">Iolre</a> who is a fantastic writer and the loveliest human being I've ever met.</p><p>She prompted me with first kiss post-Reichenbach with no pre-established relationship prior to the fall and S3 canon divergence so Mary isn't an issue.</p><p>John and Sherlock are a bit of a confused emotional mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iolre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/gifts).



“I’m sorry.” Sherlock stood in the unfamiliar doorway, his voice sounding rough with disuse and fatigue even to his own ears. His hand twitched slightly where it was holding his weight against the cool wood of the doorframe. Everything felt surreal—too smooth, too bright, too good to be true. Weak morning sunlight trickled in through the windows, lighting the barren living room and its perfectly bland, perfectly impersonal decor. All of this was less than important, however, shoved into a back corner of Sherlock’s mind along with the pain running through most of his battered body, because there in the center of the room stood John Watson.

“Sherlock,” John said, barely audibly, the second syllable swallowed back as though he hadn’t meant to say it. Sherlock’s heart sang nonetheless at the sound. His eyes roved over John’s face, greedily cataloguing every faint line, every grey hair that hadn’t been there two years ago. John blinked, shifted, frowned, swallowed, and Sherlock followed every movement, allowing the details that made up John to rush back into his head like oxygen.

Sherlock exhaled, forcing himself not to be distracted by the little bubble of euphoria that had formed in his chest upon seeing John. John was angry. Confused. Uncertain. He was faded somehow, like he’d been when they first met, all those years ago. John would need explanations, apologies. _Things you’re terrible at,_ the John in his mind supplied.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said again, fighting the impulse to step closer. “Not dead, I suppose, is the short version.” He took a shaky breath, ignoring the twinge of pain in his side. “I didn’t have a choice, John.”

“You were dead,” John said, staring at Sherlock’s shoes. “You were _dead,_ Sherlock! You let me believe for two years—” He broke off, breathing steadily through his nose. 

“It was to save you,” Sherlock said, his voice low. “I had to. There was a sniper on you. And two others, on Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty’s. I couldn’t tell you, or you would have been shot. 

John choked out something like a laugh, but it was quiet and bitter and far from the sound Sherlock missed so dearly. “You have no idea what you did to me, do you?” John said, finally raising his head and meeting Sherlock’s gaze. 

Sherlock hesitated. It was true, he _didn’t_ know. Or he hadn’t. He could see now in the stiffness of John’s leg, the unhappy lines of his face, and the mistrust in his eyes a John Watson Sherlock hadn’t seen since their first case, and it dawned on him that all of this was not because Sherlock had returned but because, two years ago, he had left.

Sherlock blinked, absorbing this information. 

He’d hurt John. Or rather, his absence had hurt John. Beyond the loss of a source of adventure and adrenaline? Uncertain. But the data was there, clear as day. John had grieved, and apparently had not found something to lift him out of it as Sherlock and the Work had once done when John had been grieving the loss of his military career.

Should he have foreseen this? How could he have? How could he have known that John would—

The wave of dizziness hit Sherlock out of nowhere, swirling his thoughts and bringing him back to reality a moment later with a sharp pain in the side of his head. He frowned, blinking the blurriness from his vision and realizing belatedly that he was on the floor, a concerned-looking John kneeling in front of him.  

“Are you okay?” John asked, sounding vaguely frantic as he reached out to pull Sherlock forward from where he was slumped against the doorframe. Sherlock couldn’t quite help the wave of sentiment that rolled through him at that familiar touch, but it was quickly replaced by a wave of pain. He gasped involuntarily, one hand flying to his ribs as a sharp ache shot up his side. The wounds on his back had opened up again, too; he could feel them staining his shirt with blood.

“Sorry,” John said, freezing with one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and the other on his side. He stared at his hands for a moment and then looked up at Sherlock, his face shocked as though he’d not expected them to be there. Or perhaps as though he’d not expected them to land on something solid. 

Sherlock stared back, unsure what to say (“I’m not a ghost” seemed too patronizing), and then blurted, “I thought I’d come back to find you’d taken up skydiving.”

John blinked, his mouth dropping open slightly and his frown smoothing into something softer. “What?” He said, sounding on the edge of breathy laughter. Sherlock thought it was possible that John was mildly hysterical.

“To keep you busy. Since I wasn’t around.” He paused. “John, I. I never dreamed you would be so affected.”

John stared at him, then shook his head. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he said, his eyelids slipping closed and opening again to reveal tears glistening at the edges.

Sherlock could feel an answering lump rising in his own throat, but John was blinking the tears away, shifting into a professional mindset and frowning down at Sherlock’s torso. “Let’s get you onto the sofa, yeah? You look like hell, Sh—Sherlock.” John wrapped his arms carefully around Sherlock and Sherlock allowed himself to be helped up, basking in the sound of his name in John’s voice and John’s strong arms supporting him. 

“Let me look at that rib,” John said, his voice shaking, once Sherlock had been deposited on the sofa, but Sherlock shook his head. His transport could wait. John wouldn’t want to see what his shirt and coat were hiding anyway. 

“It’s fine. John. I’m sorry. I truly didn’t know. I had no choice, I had to jump and you couldn’t know about it, but I had no idea of the degree to which it would upset you. So I am sorry for the pain that I have caused you.” He took a careful breath, feeling John’s steady, even gaze on him, and continued. “But I can’t regret it. If I hadn’t jumped, you would be dead. If I hadn’t taken the utmost care to keep it a secret, you could be dead, and you wouldn’t come back. I couldn’t allow that, John. I don’t know if you understand,” he said quietly, avoiding John’s gaze now, “but I just couldn’t risk it.”

There was silence for a moment, and then John sighed, sinking onto the sofa next to Sherlock and shaking his head. “Christ, Sherlock,” he said, and then didn’t say anything more for a minute.

Sherlock watched him anxiously. The thought had crossed his mind before he’d come to find John that perhaps everything would have been better if he really had jumped. Perhaps John would have found himself a perfect life. Perhaps Sherlock would make things worse. The thought was returning to him now, swirling about in his head as he watched John’s rigid profile. His eyes traced over the curve of his nose and lips and chin, the arch of his fingers and the scruff at the back of his neck. All things that Sherlock loved—yes, loved, he could admit it to himself now—about John Watson. Small things among countless Things about John Watson that Sherlock loved and had missed with a continuous ache. But perhaps it would have been better for John if he hadn’t returned. Perhaps John would have found something better to lift him out of the doldrums. Sherlock looked down at his hands, at the blood still caked beneath his fingernails, and wondered if John oughtn’t to wish Sherlock were really dead.

“Look,” John said, and Sherlock glanced up to find John watching him. He looked exhausted and more than a little bit angry, but there was something of the fondness that Sherlock remembered so vividly softening his gaze. “I can’t quite believe this is real,” John said, the words sounding a bit stiff in his mouth. “And you are a massive cock and I can’t fucking believe you let me grieve for you. I’m furious, to be quite honest, and I have every right to be. But, I’m. Jesus, I just missed you so much.” 

Sherlock swallowed, looking at him. “I missed you, too,” he said quietly, warmth blooming in his chest as John’s face softened into something that looked almost like a watery smile. He felt as though he could be content to sit there on the sofa forever just looking at John’s dear, dear face. Part of him wondered whether he would blink and find he was back in a damp Serbian cellar, the John in his mind scolding him for letting his thoughts drift so far that he could no longer discern between dreams and reality. The drugs, the lack of sleep and food, the days he’d gone with no way to tell the time had all thrown his mind palace into disarray, and there had been times when he’d almost forgotten his own identity. But never John’s. If there was anything holding down the fortress of his mind palace, it had been John, making tea and tapping away at his laptop or watching something ridiculous while eating Chinese takeaway. That room in his mind palace, a welcoming replica of 221B, had kept him relatively sane when he’d needed it most. And now he’d finally found his way back to the real John Watson. Sherlock had a sudden desire to reach out and touch him again, just to be sure.

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone quiet and a little bit wary. “You’re crying.”

Sherlock blinked, hastily turning his face away and using his sleeve to wipe the tears off his face with as much dignity as he could muster. “Sorry,” he muttered awkwardly, looking back at John and clearing his throat.

John laughed dryly, shaking his head and running a hand underneath his own red-rimmed eyes. “No, it’s fine,” he said. He shook his head again, giggling. “It’s fine. Fucking christ, Sherlock.”  

Sherlock nodded and edged closer, pulling an afghan off the back of the sofa and draping it over John’s shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said again, placing his hands back in his lap. John laughed, looking up at him with a helpless expression that Sherlock wished he knew how to smooth away.  

“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, for faking your death, you should be.” He laughed again, but this time it came out almost like a sob. Sherlock raised a hesitant hand, uncertain what to do with it to make John feel better but desperately wanting to make John feel better, and then John said “fuck it” and turned his head and was kissing him.  

It took Sherlock a moment to register what was happening, but when he did he found himself pressing forward urgently, cataloguing the feeling of John’s lips on his and what he tasted like and the smell of his skin and the warmth of his hands. It had been a very long time since Sherlock had had any physical contact with another human being that had not resulted in pain, and he could practically feel his skin craving it, wanting to get as close to John as was possible. It was only when John broke away that Sherlock realized quiet whimpers were coming from his own throat and he swallowed, staring up at John and ignoring the pain in his back and his ribs.

John was looking down at him, breathing shakily. “Sorry,” he said.

Sherlock shook his head, realizing his hands were clinging to John’s jumper. He couldn’t seem to find his voice, but when John started to pull back, he looked up at him imploringly. “John,” he said, his voice coming out rough and deep. John stopped, blinking down at him. 

“I love you,” Sherlock said, the words spilling from his mouth. He froze, staring at John, who looked just as shocked as he felt. _You idiot,_ the John in his mind said. 

“Sorry, forget that,” Sherlock said, fumbling. “Timing, I know, not ideal. Probably wouldn’t be ideal regardless of timing.” _Shut up._ “Just forget about it.”  

“God, Sherlock,” John choked out, staring at him. “You are so oblivious sometimes. How could you of all people not know that I’ve been in love with you for years?”

Sherlock blinked, and then John was kissing him again and sobbing into his mouth and Sherlock was struggling to keep his own tears of disbelief and euphoria and exhaustion from spilling over and John’s arms were around him and he smelled like home and Sherlock couldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else but here in London, crying into John’s shoulder as John cried into his because finally, finally it was over.

Later, when they had both calmed down, John shifted against him, laughing softly. “We are a mess.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, pressing his face into John’s neck. 

“I’m still furious. You have a lot of explaining to do. It hit me hard, Sherlock, losing you. It’s going to take me a while to come back from that.” 

“I know,” Sherlock said, pulling back and looking at John solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

John nodded, reaching out and brushing a curl from Sherlock’s forehead. “You probably need a hospital,” he said, looking down at Sherlock’s torso.

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “No. No hospitals. Please. It’s nothing you can’t handle.”

John frowned, concern hovering in his eyes, but he nodded. “Okay,” he said, stroking a soothing hand down Sherlock’s arm. “Okay.”

Sherlock exhaled, looking down. There was so much between them now. So many things that needed to be said. The past two years had been hard on both of them. There were going to be a lot of difficult conversations in the future, but it was okay, it was all going to be okay eventually. Sherlock would be happy to have as many difficult conversations as were necessary as long as he got to have them with John.

“Did Mrs. Hudson rent out 221B?” He asked, hesitantly, unsure if this was moving too quickly. 

John blinked and shook his head. “No. She’s kept it empty.”

“Do you want to come back with me?” Sherlock asked, feigning nonchalance.

John took a deep breath and let it out, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he said, and Sherlock’s couldn’t quite bite back a delighted smile. He ducked his head to hide it, but heard John’s soft huff of laughter in response.  

“I’ll get us a cab, then,” he said, starting to stand up, but John put out a hand to stop him.

“Wait, wait, Sherlock, now? I should take a look at you first.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s fine. It can wait.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You collapsed in the doorway.”

“Please, John. It can wait.”

“All right,” John sighed. “But just give me a few minutes, yeah? This is all a bit much. And at least have some tea first. God knows how long it’s been since you ate.” 

Sherlock exhaled shakily and nodded, the fact that John was offering him tea and scolding him for his eating habits making his throat constrict with joy. 

“Okay,” John said. “Don’t move. Please, don’t go anywhere.”

Sherlock nodded again, and watched John go into the small kitchen. The achingly familiar sounds of tea making reached his ears, and he watched contentedly, knowing there was a soppy look on his face but incapable of caring about anything beyond the fact that there was John, in front of him, in real, physical space. Everything else was secondary. John was here, with him, and despite everything in that moment Sherlock felt like the happiest man in the world.


End file.
